My Squire and My Lady
by Rosethorn
Summary: And wherever I ride, ever staunch at my side, my squire and my lady shall be. Scully watches Man of La Mancha and starts to thinking.


Another Saturday night, alone and dateless. Could be worse. At least I'm not out chasing ghosts or aliens or whatever the hell Mulder's dug up this time. But then I'd be with him, at least.

Well, at least the odds are he'll call soon. I glance at the clock: seven. He usually holds out until nine or ten, so I've got a couple of hours to kill, but sometimes he calls early, so I can't go out. I could watch TV, I guess. Channel surfing isn't going to cut it, not for two hours, but I can at least see what's on.

God, that sounds pathetic. I need to jump his bones soon, or maybe take a vacation and try to get this out of my system. Like it worked so well last time. Either way, this codependency thing has got to stop.

Jeopardy, nah. Wheel of Fortune—um, no thanks. Reality show, hell no.

Hey, a movie. Man of La Mancha—I've never heard of it, but that's Peter O'Toole, so it's got to be worth a glance. I check the TV guide and discover that it's a musical about Don Quixote. Normally I'm not one for musicals, but again, it's Peter O'Toole. I stay on the channel and watch, and soon I am drawn into the story.

When it's over, I click off the TV and stare at the screen for a bit. It's spooky how much that reminded me of Mulder—no pun intended. A man lost to reality, on some impossible quest he's dreamed up in his madness, looking for something that in all probablity doesn't exist. That's got Mulder written all over it in big shiny letters.

And the people who surround him; Skinner the padre, the Smoking Man the doctor, people who mock him at first and get drawn into his quest. God knows I can relate.

So, pushing a metaphor too far, where does that leave me?

Oh, stop fooling yourself, Dana. You know where it leaves you. Sancho Panza, the round little comic relief sidekick who follows Don Quixote like a faithful puppy for no other reason than that he likes him. Except it's a little more than like for me, but hey, it makes no difference.

Poor Sancho, always getting taken for granted and ignored. He never got anything for picking Don Quixote up and dusting him off; just a pat on the head.

I'm so sick of being Sancho. Is it too much to ask for a little appreciation sometimes? Except for these Saturday night calls, Mulder doesn't even seem to see me half the time. He definitely hasn't figured out that I'm just itching to jump him, and I've done everything short of climbing into his lap and humping vigorously. I just want some attention. Did Sancho ever want that? Did Sancho ever want to be Dulcinea?

Humph. I'll always be Sancho. I know that as well as I know that Mulder will always be chasing his impossible dream. He bends people around his crazy reality and he doesn't even realize it. Sometimes I wonder if he even notices those other people. He certainly doesn't notice me.

Yet I still chase after him, still pick him up and dust him off after he's gone tilting at windmills. And when even his Dulcinea scorns him, I'm still there. There's honor in that, even if there's no real happiness.

I glance at the clock again. Ten-thirty. He's late.

Screw this. I'm going to wallow in self-pity a little more. I'm going to bed.

Somebody knocks while I'm getting into my pajamas. I swear to God, if it's a soliciter I'm going to shoot him. If it's a Jehovah's Witness I'm going to shoot him twice. No jury would convict me, not after the week I've had.

I open the door. It's neither a solicter nor a Jehovah's Witness.

"Hey, Scully. Listen, I know we haven't had the best of weeks and you weren't looking to happy yesterday so I brought you these." Mulder shoves the flowers he's holding into my arms, almost as if he's scared he's going to drop them if he doesn't. He jogs in place briefly. "I've got to run. I'll see you on Monday, okay?" And he's gone.

Damn him, anyway. Where does he get off wrecking a perfectly good snit?  
I stand in the doorway, my arms full of multicolored carnations, victim of a drive-by cheering-up, and start to grin like an idiot.

Maybe I'm Dulcinea after all.

A/N: Constructive criticism requested.


End file.
